


This bed I lay in bathed in blood

by Rollthedice



Series: Pain is in the Mind [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollthedice/pseuds/Rollthedice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Arthur can't dream,<br/>It's just that he doesn't want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he needs to do is wake up.
> 
> Just wake up.
> 
> He cant wake up.

Its not that he cant dream,

Its just that he doesn’t want to.

Dreams are not an escape, a free space to be moulded and created as you please, dreams are a prison, room after room of iron bars that hide the truth. Dreams are a battle field and all you can do is try to stay alive.

First comes the explosions, Arthur's fine with that. He knows them, they seem somewhat comforting in that twisted way of his, almost like home.

But its just the calm before the storm, the storm of hail and rain, blood and pain that crashes through his mind whether he's awake or asleep, the bullets rain down upon them, lethal dances just to stay alive, stay breathing, stay thinking.

The grenades drop as if they fell from the heavens, the sound of a small  _thud,_ an explosion, then nothing. They're outnumbered, they're always outnumbered.

Arthur knows what’s coming next, he's seen it a thousand times, played as if it were nothing more than a scene stuck on repeat, he knows its not real, knows that all he needs to do is wake up.

 

Just wake up.

 

He cant wake up.

 

Around him bodies start to drop, their faces twisted in agony as they pirouette to the floor. He wants to help, he knows that if he just _tried a little harder_ maybe they would be alive, but he cant stop them, he cant move.

They fall like dominoes, one after the other. Childhood friends, brothers in arms, he recognises them, he knows every single one and he  _needs_ to help them, he cant move, he's firmly rooted to the ground and he's thrashing and he’s crashing but he cant get free.

Wake up, just wake up, it's only a dream.

He fumbles for his totem but when his shaking hand reaches into his pocket his fingers clasp around a grenade and he could use it. He could throw it, he could wake up.

But he doesn’t.

He wants to run but he cant, only a few remain and he wants to turn away but he cant, he wants to say sorry but the words come out twisted and he cant make sense of it any more. The domino soldiers cry out, begging and pleading, calling his name and he wants to say that he cant hear them but he  _can._

Just like every time it's the same group that are last to fall, it's no surprise, just routine, just the countdown that rings through his ears,

5,

Ariadne, taken out with a bullet to the head.

4,

Yusuf goes up in an explosion.

3,

Cobb drops to the floor as a bullet pierces his chest.

2,

Saito's helicopter explodes just as he tries to reach him.

1,

Eames.

Eames looking at him, watching him as the world seems to cease spinning, bullet after bullet embedding themselves into his chest as if they belonged there, Arthur couldn’t turn away, couldn’t stop the screams that rose to his throat as the British man's body spilled and as quickly as it started it's over.

  _Silence._

 He's still living, still breathing, still thinking.

He's seen them all die before of course, countless times. But they always wake up.

Wake up, wake up. You need to wake up.

This time they don’t wake up, they never do in these endless dreams, the ground was stained with blood and there’s blood on Arthurs hands.

Blood on his hands that's not his own and its his fault its all his fault.

Red dice rain from the heavens and he scrambles for them, clutching one to his chest before it turns into a gun and this is new, he doesn’t remember this.

The gun turns into a poker chip and he tries to drop it but its burning a hole in his hand as it turns to a watch with no hands that just says times up and he wants to move and he can.

He can move.

He can run, so he runs, voices echoing through his head as his hands drip with crimson blood.

_  
_

_Drip,_

_Drip,_

_Drip._

 

He leaves a trail of blood behind him and before he knows it he's riddled with phantom bullet holes, the blood leaking out through his shirt through wounds that aren't there, wounds that have healed.

He reaches for his die but all he feels is the grenade and he needs to wake up but he cant bring himself to do it because this isn’t right, the dream has changed and he's still running because he can.

The silence is broken by footsteps that aren’t his own and he knows this part of the story, he's read ahead and re-read and he's been reading for as long as he can remember.

Faces twisted with agony as they haul their lifeless bodies towards him and it's his fault that their dead, he doesn’t know why but it is, it's all his fault and he wants to escape and he wants to be free and he doesn’t know if he's dreaming any more because there's no time for thinking and there's no time for breathing and his fingers curl against something hard in his pocket and he shreds the pin out with his teeth and he holds it to his chest because he can't afford to hurt the bodies again dead or alive, he clenches his eyes shut and then it's all over in one final blast.

-/-

Arthur shot up in bed, tackling with the duvet before falling off the side, tangled in the blankets he's too tired to push away as he steadies his breathing and reaches for his die. He holds it for a moment, feeling the weight in his fingers as he silently thanks whoever's listening that it's not a grenade as he lets it roll across the floor to it's inevitable stop.

He's awake.

It was just a dream, he knows that. The dead don’t walk and dice don’t turn into grenades and he can still run if he wants too.

 

Arthur can't recall exactly when these dreams started. It must have been at least a year after he left the military service, at least a few months after he started dream sharing illegally. A few weeks after he met Eames.

Eames, who he thought he would never see again. Eames who he left at the barracks after an argument, one of many. Eames whose voice carries across the wind when he yells, Eames who never looks a day older than twenty five, Eames whose chest was leaking crimson, whose face was pale and twisted in pain and shock, Eames who called his name through blood stained lips and stared at him with eyes that turned icy and cold, Eames whose lifeless body crawled after him in the desert sun, Eames who-

No, it was all just a dream. Mr Eames is very much alive in a sleazy hotel room in Madrid, Mr Eames who insists on calling Arthur some nights just to 'chat.'

These chats last approximately ten seconds, just long enough for Arthur to hear his voice, conclude there is no important information and slam the phone back down.

  


Don't you just love those 3 AM phone calls.

 


	2. Fear is a troubled mistress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He's a lion in a field of lions all hunting for the same solution, the same end._

It gets him every time, every nightmare, every moment where he's been unable to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not.

It's the fear that gets him, the fear that he can feel on his heels, feel it breathing down his neck.

This is the final battle between his mind, his body and the devil on his shoulder telling him that this is all just a game.

That he just needs to wake up.

He's already awake.

 

It's not like anyone notices any more, everything about it just seems all so very _Arthur._ The circles under his eyes, the slightly obsessive dependency on coffee and how he works like a desperate man, lost in the one sided relationship that is him and his work. They know how he works late as often as he can, sacrificing the sleep he knows he needs.

He cant sleep, he cant sleep because he's afraid of what he'll see, afraid of what he'll become. The dreams collapse around him now, they've changed. He can run if he wants but he forgets how to move his feet, the skies rain with death and the bodies stack up like mountains. Each bullet a ball on a pinball machine.

In the end it was the fear that saved him, the fear that united him with a means to escape, the fear that leaked from his eyes.

The fear that led to two very unlikely companionships.

-/-

The first thing Arthur remembers from the following morning is the bloody birds with their freakishly loud twittering that seemed to find it tremendous fun to perch on his windowsill like a bloody Disney cartoon.

 “Oh chirp off back to whatever depths of hell you came from.” He grumbled, quickly and efficiently dressing himself. Within ten minutes he was out the door and halfway down the street, glaring at any pigeon that dared to come close enough to him to be subject to a glare that could force any politician to tell the truth. All he really wanted to do was get in, do his work and get out. That however, was the least likely scenario.

 

“- And get this, _that's_ when she said she never even had a chihuahua!”

“Eames for gods sake have you ever heard the phrase silence is golden?” Arthur snapped, not looking up from his laptop.

“Have you ever heard the phrase 'I’m a strong independent forger that don’t need no silence?'” Eames replied, grinning from ear to ear.

“That's not even the right saying..”

“Oh lighten up Darling, anyone would think you're dying”

 It was then Arthur decided to live by his previous saying, remaining silent as he attempted to continue his research. It was all in vain however for Eames chose that moment to dramatically swoon across the room and press his palm against Arthur's forehead.

"Sweet heavens have mercy!” He cried “Our precious Arthur is dying from stickinthemud syndrome, oh cruel fate!”

It was way too early in the morning for this shit, Arthur pushed Eames's hand away and glared at him, looking particularly scandalized.

“Well if I am dying, then it is my last dying wish that you go away Mr Eames and get some actual work done.” Arthur said, turning his attention back to the screen.“As you wish my brave little soldier!” Eames said _“Fight the good fight Arthur”_ he added in a stage whisper before crossing the room back to his chair, winking at the young woman hiding her giggles behind her hand, Ariadne.

-/-

The overhead clock struck 4pm just as Arthur was finishing his eleventh cup of coffee, the words on the screen blurring into one jumble of confusion and mismatched faces. The pages on his desk all seemed to say the same thing with different words and it was just so _frustrating._ This was his job damn it, this was all he had left. Despite the quiet muttering and knowing glances between the others, and not forgetting Cobb's constant accusing and concerned squinting, it was Eames who first asked the question inquiring into Arthurs well being. Though it wasn’t phrased quite as politely as we can only assume it sounded in his head.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

Cue the silence from the rest of the group, the audience to this particular performance. Arthur could _swear_ he heard Yusuf wishing he had brought popcorn.

“Excuse me?” He said, glancing up from the piece of paper his tired eyes refused to read.

“Arthur Darling, you may hate me forever for pointing this out, but you look like shit.”

“Charming..And you wonder why you've never had a long term relationship.” Arthur challenged, folding his arms across his chest.

“Matter of choice pet” Eames said with a shrug “But seriously, what’s your deal?”

“My deal?” Arthur replied, as if the very words themselves had personally offended the night time antics of his mother, as was custom to these types of conversation. “My deal is that I would like to be left alone thank you very much.”

And with that he was gone, papers gathered underneath his arm as he stalked out of the room, dropping a few in the process that he refused to bend down to retrieve, it was a matter of principle. He pushed his way through the door and out on to the empty alleyway that led to the street. Never faltering in his pace until he was safely inside his apartment and was sure he wasn't followed. Doors and windows closed to the world around him.

Arthur dumped his belongings on the nearest desk and crossed the carpet floor to the cold hard tiles of the bathroom. Automatically he ran his hands under the cold tap, cupping the icy water as best as he could, splashing the contents over his face. Only then did he glance up to look straight at his reflection.

Fuck.

As much as he hated to admit it, Eames was right. He looked like complete and utter shit, as if he had been dragged through a rose bush by a disgruntled bear. The hair that seemed welded down earlier that same day was now dishevelled, sticking up and ruffled in all the wrong places. The circles under his eyes gave him the impression of a homeless man starved of a good nights sleep, only now did he realize just how fucking tired he was.

 

He couldn't sleep, not yet.

He couldn’t face the horrors that lay dormant behind his eyelids, waiting to pounce like a hungry tiger devouring it's pray. Just for a moment he closes his eyes, gives them a seconds rest. He's a lion in a field of lions all hunting for the same solution, the same end. The ground beneath his paws turns to dice and the devil on his shoulder tells him that _this is all in his imagination, he's awake, just roll the dice._

There’s blood on his paws that’s not his and he cant fight it, cant escape it.

There's blood in his mind that’s seeping through his armour, leaking into his defences.

He's bathed in blood and staring into the twilight darkness of his own reflection in a mirror made of dice, heart pounding, soul spilling. Trying to remind himself again and again that he is _real_ , that the blood is _not,_ And that so help me god he had to pull it together, he had to restitch the seams of his mind and keep on going.

 

_Keep on going._

 

It's not like he's dying, not yet. He knows death, he knows the way it constricts your heart, your throat, your mind. He knows death is the final full stop, the last note of this twisted melody. Death swoops in with his billowing cloak and envelopes you into a world of darkness.

 

Darkness.

 

It's not the end, it's not that he wants it to be, but it's all part of life isn't it? It's all just the final scene before the curtain closes.

He's stared death in the face before, that’s practically his job. He's spat in deaths eye, put two fingers up and clawed himself back to the surface.

That’s just what he does.

It's a necessity.

The bloods still on his paws, seeping into his skin and this feels like the end.

He's fumbling for his dice but he has no pockets, he's a fucking lion for Christ's sake. He's drowning in the dice but none of it is real and he _knows_ that, he _knows_ he's not asleep and that all he has to do is open his eyes, clear his head and roll his dice.

But he can't, his eyes remain firmly shut, blocking out the reality that Arthur tries to grasp, watching as it slips away from his fingertips. This isn't right, none of this is right. Sure he's been attacked by such thoughts before in his waking life, but never as viciously, never as relentlessly as this. The invasion of dice envelop him, twisting him and twirling him in their lethal whirlwind, he needs to know something, he needs to remember something, but he's forgotten what he needs to remember. The paws have turned into hands again, but their not his own. He's human, he's breathing, but he's lost. The devil on his shoulder is laughing at him, cruel and shrill, sending shivers down his spine as he tumbles down into the abyss, the ground becoming closer and closer, time running out until he hits the hard surface. He's falling and he's falling and all he can think about is falling, he's clinging to a parachute that doesn't exist and never worked anyway. This is it, this it how it ends. The dice have gone, evaporated into thin air and the ground is getting closer and closer and before he knows it he's slamming down into the ground, the twisted sound of breaking bones filling his ears and-

He opens his eyes.

Arthurs on his knees on the floor, doubled over and trembling with every shaking breath.

He's still breathing, still thinking, heart still beating beneath a cage of bone that remain sturdy, no breaks from impossible falls. Slowly he gets to his feet, clinging to the back of the couch for support as he blinks the blurry spots out of his vision.

That was new.

Fixing himself another cup of coffee he tried to relax into his couch, flicking on the news. It was all the same, Tax scandal, Politicians lying and Derek the water-skiing squirrel. And when you start to get jealous of how carefree a bloody squirrel seems, you know you've got problems.

His phone rang a total ten times, Four from Cobb, two from Yusuf, three from Ariadne and finally one from Eames, approximately ten minutes ago. Obviously they didn't get his message of “Leave me alone.” It wasn't that he didn’t want to talk to them, its just he _really_ didn't want to talk to them.

Truth be told he doesn't even know what he does want to do, he's long since accepted his fate, accepted that he can't change, can't fix it.

Suddenly a great score of cheerful music burst from the television, turning his head to see the source of the commotion, he found his eyebrows shooting up to his ruffled hairline and the beginning of an idea forming in his head.

 

Maybe there was once last thing he never tried, one last thing that just might be crazy enough to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you want a kudos and/or a comment would be greatly appreciated! As is constructive criticism, it can always be better! <3


	3. One man and his dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The night was dark but the light shone through the cracks, the doors were closed but the windows of opportunity were open. A new start, a new life._

Monday, just another average day where the sun rises and the birds emerge from their nests, ready for whatever the day may throw at them. The city begins to wake to the tune of twittering and the golden glow of that giant ball in the sky, eyes blinking awake to the world, warm and comfortable in their beds.

Arthur however, was of a different breed. Fingers tapped restlessly against the desk and a half empty mug of black coffee by his side. Bloodshot eyes surveyed the chaos of papers and files that lay scattered around him. The clock on the wall ticking, ticking.

Exactly twenty minutes later he was out of the door, passing the warehouse and the coffee shop, through the park and over the bridge, up this lane, down that one, round and round endless corners until at last, he stood victorious outside a white washed building, one large sign hanging over the doorway. 

 

**-/-**

“It's not like him to be late” Eames said, eyeing the door as if it had personally offended him

“Do you think he's okay?” someone called from across the room, a quick swivel of a chair proved it to belong to Ariadne.

“He's a big boy, he can look after himself” Eames said, tearing his gaze away from the door to offer a reassuring smile to Ariadne “The twat's probably on some big adventure whilst we sit here and twiddle our thumbs”

A clattering of trays in the next room followed by a string of imaginative curses caused them to look up, a moment later Yusuf pushed the door open, balancing what remained of coffee's and teas on the wooden surface of the tray.

“I thought you were supposed to have steady hands?” Cobb said, speaking for the first time since he learned of Arthur's sudden disappearance.

“Hey, it's hot okay?!” Yusuf grumbled, setting the tray down with a flourish “Bonn apatite!” smiling eyes surveyed the room as a light frown appeared on his forehead “Arthur not back yet?”

His question was met with a chorus of shaking heads.

“Just as well I suppose...I spilled most of his coffee.”

 

**-/-**

Darkness. That’s what he wishes to see, endless pits of pure _nothing._

Silence creeping upon silence, emptiness hiding inside emptiness, just bleak, dark, unedited nothing.

That’s all he wants, all he wants to see when he closes his eyes. Black instead of red. Silence instead of screams. Nothing instead of everything.

Truth be told, Arthur's tired. Tired of waking, tired of sleeping, tired of thinking, thinking, thinking. Always thinking. Ideas and obsessions running through his mind every minute of every day, telephone numbers for people he doesn't like, addresses from places he's never been. Memories that aren't his....and memories that are.

That’s how he ended up here....It would always end the same way, no matter what details were altered. Arthur would always be standing in a new room, in a new town, beginning a new memory.

Bright posters decorated the walls, desperate pleas splattered in the form of leaflets that piled high on the small table in the corner. Various certificates and photographs hung on whatever space was left on the cluttered walls and some god awful boy band was playing on the radio.

Arthur could have spent a lot longer just surveying the scene, enjoying the warmth that radiated from the very soul of the building had his thoughts not been interrupted by an almost bored voice.

“Welcome to The Riverside Shelter for abandoned animals, how may I help you today?”

Arthur eyed the twenty something woman up and down, wondering if this might just turn out to be a terrible idea.

“Well, I saw your advertisement on the Television and I-”

“And you would like to adopt a fluffy bundle of joy that makes all of your problems go away?” the woman, whose name tag betrayed her to be called Tabitha interrupted, pushing aside a magazine she had previously been giving all her attention.

“Something like that...” Arthur said, taken aback by the receptionists less than warm and friendly attitude.

“Fill in this form please” She said, the last word dropping from her lips like poison as if it pained her to say it “Jazz will be with you shortly”

Bearing the form in one hand, and a pen in the other Arthur sought out an empty table, glancing down at the questions.

 

**-/-**

“So the second level will be a war zone...Are you sure that's safe? You're giving the projections guns, armour..”

“They wont know how to use them”

“Even a novice with a gun can figure out how to pull the trigger Cobb, I don’t fancy going on a suicide mission with you.”

“If it all goes to plan, the projections wont even know we're there, besides you and Arthur have been in the same situation completely awake, I trust your capabilities”

“Yeah, what a great help Arthur will be..What with him not being here and all”

“He'll turn up”

“And if he doesn't?”

The answer came in the form of a lamp and a few files crashing to the floor in one sweeping motion, leaving Cobb to glare at them as if they had dared to fall off on their own accord and had not in fact been chucked to the ground by an angry American,

“He will, I know he will”

 

**-/-**

Moments later, the door at the side of the room opened and a solitary figure walked out, looking significantly more cheerful than her co worker and headed straight for Arthur.

“Good morning Mr...” She paused, glancing down at the form “Mr Miller, could you follow me please?”

Without waiting for an answer she smiled, turning on her heel and walking back in the direction she came. After a moments hesitation Arthur followed her, leaving the receptionist to return to her magazine.

“So Mr Miller I understand you're a salesman?” The woman he assumed was Jazz asked as they walked through the door and into a long corridor

“Yes, well...Sort of”

“Do you travel a lot Mr Miller?”

“Yes”

Silence followed them for a moment as she shifted through papers. Approaching the end of the corridor she paused.

“Do you prefer big Sir?”

“Excuse me?” Arthur asked, almost choking on the very air he was breathing

“Could you handle a big one? They can be rather hard to control at times, excuse me for assuming Sir but I feel like a large one would suit you best”

“I, uh.. What?”

“Dogs sir, do you have a preference?” She said, the ghost of a smile tickling her lips

“Oh right...Well I was actually wondering if you had a Doberman...I've been doing some research and-”

“Say no more!” She said excitedly, jumping up and down on the balls of her feet for reasons Arthur couldn't quite understand. “Follow me!”

 

**-/-**

“Screw it...I'm going to his apartment” Eames said, grabbing his coat from the makeshift hook.

“We've looked there remember, no ones been in or out of that place since this morning, no signs of any struggle, no signs of anyone being there except for Arthur.” Ariadne said, looking up from her model.

“Maybe we missed something, for all we know he's out there fighting for his life” Eames said hoarsely, running his hand through his dishevelled hair.

“I thought you said he could look after himself?”

“Even men like Arthur make mistakes”

 

**-/-**

Arthurs phone vibrated in his pocket for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time he ignored it. Deciding to face whatever consequences they carried with them the following day. With some effort he shifted his focus back onto the girl that led him down another corridor, this one filled with excited yapping and barking, promises of a home that always seems one step ahead, one inch out of reach. It was sad really, dogs young and old so filled with hope every time the doors open and the light shines through. Parading around their kennels as if it might make them look more adoptable. All they want is a home, a family, someone to love and depend on.

The pointman's heart was ripped into pieces by balls of fluff. Large eyes that stared up at him with a desperate starvation, a crave for a home. Whimpers and barks that haunted his eardrums, nervously shaking pups calmed only by the steady hand of Jazz as they passed. Older dogs lifting tired, forlorn eyes to him, eyes that have seen rejection time and time again.

He guesses that it never gets any easier.

Arthurs heartbreak grows more and more unbearable as they reach the end of the room, strained ears barely registering Jazz's attempts at conversation, something about what good timing he had, she was about to let them out in the yard for a run, would he like to stay to see it and so on.

Rather suddenly they came to a stop at the end of the room, facing the final kennel. Jazz crouched down and gently tapped the bars. It wasn't long until what Arthur had wrongly assumed as a rug jumped up and trotted towards them. Brown eyes stared at him before a flare of excitement suddenly burst inside the creatures chest, barking excitedly and shoving his nose through the bars, trying desperately to force his rather large body through the tiny gap to get to the pointman's side.

“Cracker” Jazz said, her voice carried on a wave of sorrow “He's been with us for a while now..We found him abandoned on 47th street, he must have been on his own for at least a week.”

Arthur tore his gaze away from the Doberman to look at her, raising his eyebrow quizzically

“Five years old...He's the sweetest dog I've ever seen, yet no one wants to adopt him...They always say he's 'too big', 'too loud' or 'too excitable'”

“I have a friend just like that” Arthur said wistfully, a smile catching his lips as he turned his attention back to Cracker.

There was no other option now, something deep inside him rose up like a mighty flame, taking control of his very being. Before he knew it he was standing, turning, smiling and talking.

“He's perfect.”

 

**-/-**

Night was drawing in, stars being brightly painted by an invisible arm on the black canvas that stretched across the sky. The air was cold, bitterly so. The occasional late night walker hurried along their way, wrapping coats around their bodies and never once looking up to marvel at the glorious painting that hung in the sky.

Arthur however, had never felt warmer. Heat radiated from his very core and for the first time in a long time. He was happy. Cracker sat beside him, tongue lolling out and frame still shaking in excitement. They both waited in silence for an orchestra of starlight, marvelling at every sight, sound and smell that all seemed so very new to them. The night was dark but the light shone through the cracks, the doors were closed but the windows of opportunity were open. A new start, a new life.

He knew things would not be magically fixed, he didn't even know if anything would get better. Some part of him whispered that it would only get worse. But what's life without risk? This is only one page of their story, a new chapter with a thousand pages to go. His story is not over yet.

And so it was that they arrived back at their apartment. Arthur too distracted by pulling Cracker away from the decorative plants in the hallway to notice the lock had clearly been broken. Pushing open the door he switched on the light and closed the door behind him. Frowning upon the discovery that he could no longer use the lock.

Cold dread swam through his body as every muscle he owned tensed, straightening up as he clenched his fingers around the dog lease. Cracker must have sensed his fear, immediately quietening and looking expectantly around the small room.

Arthur reached around for his Glock, allowing his fingertips to run across the familiar weapon, pulling it out with an eerie ease.

It was when he clicked the safety off that he saw it, a figure by the window, a silhouette amongst the darkness. Everything seemed to slow down as his mind whirred in to action, questions without answers running wild. _Who was it? Why are they here? Why did they wait for me?_

Arthur aimed the gun for his surprise guests leg, nowhere lethal. Just enough to stop them from acting on whatever intent they had. Before he could pull the trigger however he felt the leash slip from his grasp and heard a familiar, manly yell shortly before a crashing and the fall of the silhouette he was intently staring at. Seconds later a gruff voice spoke.

“ _Fuck”_

Eames.

Eames oh god, of course it would be Eames, how could he have been so stupid as to forget he had left without a word. Of bloody course Eames would camp out in his apartment.

Arthur clicked the safety back on. Tucking the gun away before quickly crossing the room, pulling a rather large Doberman off a rather disgruntled Eames.

 

“A dog? A freaking dog?”

“Yes Eames, I'm glad you haven't suffered any disillusions since we last saw each other, this is indeed a dog”

“I get that you bloody idiot” Eames seethed, looking for all the world like he was going to punch Arthur in the face. The thought must have crossed his mind. About twenty times.

“I'm sorry he...You know. We weren't expecting guests tonight”

“Arthur you twat we thought you were _dead_. And since when have you had a blooming dog!?” Eames said crossly, torn between relief and anger.

“Since about an hour ago”

“A hour a- You mean whilst we've all been worried sick you've been buying a _dog?_ ”

“Adopting. Actually.”

“Oh, well that makes it oh so much better.” Eames growled “What were you thinking? Was it so impossible for you to call up and say 'oh so sorry old chums, I'm gallivanting off to adopt some random animal cheerio'”

“Since when did I become British?”

The fire that raged in Eames's eyes grew immeasurably. The Brit surpassed him in strength but they were about the same height, Eames possibly being slightly taller. Arthur doubted he could best him in a fist fight, he doubted he even wanted too. A part of him told him to stand there and take whatever his co worker could throw at him.

“Why didn't you just send us a message?” Eames asked after a moments silence.

“I didn't thin- I'm sorry” Arthur said, attempting to pull back Cracker who was now eagerly sniffing Eames's leg.

“Didn't think what? That we would care? Didn't think we would worry? Didn't think we would want to know you were safe? Christ Arthur! Do you really think we're that heartless?!”

Arthur remained silent, his usual silver tongue failing him in the moment he needed it most. Eames's anger only seemed to grow and grow, a volcano spitting out more volcanoes, a firework that wont stop going off.

“First you show up to work looking like a part of some god damn lab experiment, then you disappear to adopt a bloody dog, talk to me Arthur! What the hell is going on! Talk to me! Cause I sure as anything don't have a clue.”

“It's getting late” Arthur said, looking up at the clock “If you so wish, we shall discuss matters in the morning. I trust you can see yourself out Mr Eames?”

“Oh no Arthur, I'm not giving you the chance to perform another disappearing act on us again. I'm staying here.” Eames said, stubbornly glaring at the point man.

“That really wont be necessary Eames” Arthur said, returning the glare with as much strength as melting ice. So not all that much.

“Arthur. Darling. Need I remind you that not only have you turned out to be a rather talented magician at disappearing, but your lock is indeed broken, making your dear sweet apartment susceptible to any kind of tomfoolery. I personally volunteer to protect whatever morals these walls uphold.” Eames's eyebrow was raised in challenge, his glare stony and cold.

“Fine, whatever. Just stay out of my room” Arthur grumbled, pushing past the Forger to the kitchen, setting out the dog bowls he had previously purchased at the 24 hour department store, filling one with water and the other with an assortment of dog biscuits. He set up a cluster of homely looking blankets in one corner of the room and called Cracker over. Satisfied only when the Doberman was resting comfortably. With a single glance at Eames, Arthur stalked into his room and closed his door behind him.

“Goodnight” Eames muttered to himself, glaring holes through the wall. Seconds after sitting down on the sofa he found he wasn't alone. Cracker leapt up next to him, resting his head on the Forgers knee and staring up at him. Eames found himself chuckling, gently stroking the animal that rested beside him.

 

“Your owners a bit of a prick eh boy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you want a kudos and/or a comment would be greatly appreciated! As is constructive criticism, it can always be better! <3


	4. Not quite Prince Charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Only a damn idiot would ever attempt to break those walls. A damn idiot, or Daniel Eames._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry this took so long to be updated and I wish I had a good excuse but sadly not, hopefully you can all forgive me!  
> Also just a quick note to say that this work is not beta'd but if anyone wants to change that and help me out massively and get a giant I.O.U just message me on my tumblr at http://trust-me-im-a-winchester.tumblr.com/

_There are some things worth saving, some things worth dying for. It's a game of risk it all or risk nothing and you're playing against an opponent that you cant see but its all you can think about, all you can feel. Its tic tac toe where the looser dies and the winner takes all._

_You can feel your heart beating in your chest, trying to claw its way of of the bone cage its locked inside of, hissing and spitting, tearing at the seams._

_You're running with a desperate starvation of survival, a need to run and just keep running, don’t look back, just keep running._

_It was all the same, all the same gunshots, all the same bodies. You can run if you want to and this time you remember how. One foot in front of the other pounding on the ground, faster, faster, never fast enough._

_You're outrunning a voice, a desperate cry of the one thing that changed, the one memory that’s altered._

_Everyone’s gone, dead, destroyed. Nothing but lifeless corpses in a field of blood and a parade of bullets. Everyone. Apart from one._

_Eames survived, Eames ran with you. Eames kept you going when the lifeless bodies clawed their way to you. Eames took the grenade that you could swear used to be a die and threw it behind him. He threw it and you ran. Ran away from the voice you don’t want to hear, saying things that aren’t true. Things that cannot be true._

_It mocks him, the voice that is carried on the winds of destruction, taunts him. Arthur’s prey hunted by a memory, by a vision._

_It's all red. Red mountains, red trees, red rivers, red streets. You're tethered to something and you remind yourself that this isn’t real, that all you need to do is wake up._

_You cant wake up._

_The devil on your shoulders back but this time you know who he is. This time he speaks in a British accent, one you know all too well. You're standing in a Colosseum but the shows over and the walls are crumbling down. The lions have escaped and you cant see them but you know that they are there. You know that they are watching, waiting._

_Blood red thorns rest uneasily in the ground and you feel like some immeasurable weight has been attached to your chest. Pushing down on your lungs as you try to breathe, fight for control of your breaths. They come too fast, all in a jumble of confusion and panic, scrambling to be released from quivering lips._

_You're tired and you want to stop, you want to stop running. You want to face the problem head on but you cant. You cant stop your legs from moving. You're bathed in gunpowder under a dust bowl sky and you think about how easy it would be. How one simple spark could end it all._

_The grass around you grows tall, slithering our from the shadows like rope as it winds itself around you. Constricting you heart, your soul. There's nowhere else to run, nowhere else to go. You're thrashing and fighting but you cant get free. You cant get free of the thoughts that plague you every minute of every day and the grass is telling you to give up._

_This isn’t real._

_Grass doesn't talk._

_Grass doesn’t talk, mountains aren’t red and you can wake up if you want to._

_Just open your eyes._

_Open your damn eyes._

_Sooner or later you meet a wall, stretching as high and wide as the eye can see. No way over, under or around. You've never been here before yet you feel the tug of familiarity on your senses. You can smell the freedom that lies behind the obstruction. You can hear the silence of peace that's so near yet so far and all you want to do is reach out to it._

_To reach out to it and grapple it to your heart, to break through the wall and emerge victorious on the other side. You want to. But you can't. You're not even sure you want to any more. Pain is what you know, darkness is what you've lived in. It hurts and it leaves you short of breath. It terrifies you and it kills you. But it's all you know. You're a killer. A murderer. You don’t deserve the undisturbed peace. Not worthy of the freedom. Killers don’t have happily ever afters. Villains never win, not really. Everything ends in blood that mixes with your own and soon you cant tell whose blood is whose any more. There's blood on your hands and it could be yours but it could be a thousand other peoples too._

_There’s a figure walking towards you, leering in his step. You try to speak out but blood pours from your mouth. You're coughing and spluttering but it wont stop, it'll never stop. You deserve this. You killed them, it's your fault. Its all your fault._

_He's holding a gun to your head and you see him smile, you want to tell him to do it, to get it over with but the blood takes control, gluing your mouth shut._

_Open your eyes._

_He's getting closer now, the cold metal of the gun pressed against your temple._

_Open your eyes._

_He says something, something you can't hear because now the bloods pouring out of your ears, your brain is bleeding out. It's dying._

_Open your eyes._

_His fingers on the trigger and he wont stop grinning. Its your fault its all your fault._

_Open your damn eyes._

_You think you're crying but that cant be right, blood pours from your eyes, trickling down your cheeks like tears._

_Just open your eyes._

_The triggers pulled._

_The triggers pulled but not on you. There's blood by your feet and the figure is lying cold on his side, still grinning with the gun pointed towards himself. You try to scream and you can, the bloods stopped coming from you and now its raining red. Its your fault its all your damn fault. His twisted expression stares up at you in an unspoken challenge. You killed him. You killed him._

 

_OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES._

 

Eames wakes to yelling, strangled cries that tug on a sense of familiarity. It takes a moment for the grogginess to fade before he's on his feet, wildly looking around for danger. Another yell, louder than before erupting from Arthur’s bedroom, the door firmly closed. It's as if a caged lion is kept behind a single door, tearing up everything in it's paws to get out, to get free. Free from the confines of the room, the confines of it's mind.

Eames crosses the room in no time at all, primal instincts taking over. Get in. Save his friend. Save the boy who despite everything still leaves him breathless. Save the man he knows would do the same for him. Save him. _Save him and maybe he just might look at you with some form of supressed emotion, and maybe you wont have to talk about it, but you'll both know it's there. Save him and maybe he might turn those dimples on you. Save him because after all you've been through he's your friend. Save him because you're just not satisfied with that. Save him because you want him to know how much he means to you. Save him because you want him to love you. Save him because you want him to live._

One hand on his gun and one on the doorknob, pausing only for a split second, ear pressed against the door. Another yell, another scream, another name ripped out from lips he's studied in his moments alone. A name that sounds familiar, sounds like his own.

Eames kicked the door open, gun pointed at nothing in particular, for there was nothing for it to point at but the writhing, screaming figure on the bed. Dark hair tousled and wild, eyes clenched shut against whatever horrors were running through his head. Fists wrapped tight over handfuls of bed covers, a look of pain etched into his face so agonised it sent a spark of hurt through Eames's chest. He stopped dead in his tracks, unsure of what to do. Never before had he seen him so helpless, so defeated by the demons he had seen in his eyes. The demons he knew existed behind the pointman's cold stare. The devil in his mind twisting the details, he knew it was there, itching away under the surface. He knew yet he never said, never told, never knew how. It would be ironic if Eames wasn't so fucking worried right now.

A moment later something warm rushed past his legs and he turned his gaze on the Doberman that bounded into the room with a desperate look of need on it's strong features. The dog leapt up onto the bed and forcibly shoved its head through Arthur's defences and lay down next to him. If asked, Arthur would forever deny that he wrapped his arms around the animal next to him, burying his face into the soft fur as several sobs escaped his quivering lips before stilling, heartbeat decreasing rapidly back to normal as a look of peace passed over his contorted expression. It was as if the wars raging in his head and simply stopped. Soldiers looking at the scene before them with a soft smile as enemy turned to enemy and embraced them as brothers. Patterns of peace illuminated the night sky like stars. It wasn't perfect, and it wouldn't last. But for now it was all that was needed.

Eames stood rooted to his spot, staring open mouthed at the figure on the bed. He knew he should leave, turn around, close the door and act as if this whole thing never happened. But he just couldn't make himself turn away. He knew he would have to talk to Arthur about this sooner or later, and he knew that once he did Arthur's walls would be rapidly reconstructed around him, around his heart. Only a damn idiot would ever attempt to break those walls. A damn idiot, or Daniel Eames.

For now it was enough just to watch, to see the real Arthur. The Arthur only the lucky ones would ever get to see. Arthur with his guards down. Arthur with painful memories so dark they burst to the surface every night. Something within Eames ignited. A glorious spark that made him want to help, to help in any way he could. A flame that rose inside his chest. Arthur was his friend. Arthur was strong. Arthur could take on twenty men with nothing but a paper-clip.

But Arthur could not do this alone.

And if it meant that Eames would occasionally be subjected to cradling Arthur close as the pitch black curtains engulf the city.....Well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.


	5. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eames didn’t break Arthur’s wall. He smashed through it kamikaze style in a dramatic shattering of bricks._

Arthur blinked awake feeling strangely rested, the morning glow of the sun beaming through his window and basking his room in light, a shuffling next to him caused him to look down at the furry creature that lay in his arms, nose buried in the crook of his elbow. Not that anyone was around to see it, but the slow smile that crossed his features and crinkled his eyes would be recorded as the first time he had truly found a reason to smile.

 

Suddenly the television from the next room roared into life, a terrible demon devouring all soft sleepiness from Arthur’s state. Instinctively he reached for the gun nestled underneath his pillow, relaxing only when his shaking fingertips clasped around the cool metal. A familiar cough brought him to his senses, the gun snaking its way out of his hand and dropping to the floor. _Eames._

 

Of course, how could he forget? Eames wanted answers and when Eames wants something, he gets it. Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe he could climb out the window and forget any of this ever happened. Accuse Eames of hallucinating or something. A great plan, foolproof were it not for the fact he was on the fourteenth fucking floor.

 

With a sigh he untangled himself from Cracker and rested the balls of his feet on the carpeted floor, sitting with his head in his hands and he tried to console himself, to bring his thoughts together. After what seemed like forever he heaved his body up, glancing fleetingly as the still sleeping dog on his bed. Try as he might Arthur cannot remember how Cracker had gotten there, he could have _sworn_ he closed the door.

 

Breathing in deeply Arthur opened the door, barely muttering a 'hello' to Eames as he quickly crossed the room and disappeared into the bathroom in only his boxers, he dropped the clothes he was carrying on top of the laundry basket and stepped into the shower.

 

The water hammered down on his tired limbs, almost succeeding in relaxing him until he _dared_ to close his eyes.

 

_The blood hammered down on him like rain from a colourless sky, it trickled through his hair and down his cheeks, dropping to the floor around him as he struggled to stand. Distantly he heard a voice, but that didn't matter, none of it did. All that mattered was that he was bathed in blood that might be his own but probably isn’t._

 

_He's bathed in it because its his fault that its there. Who was left with the job of telling wives, mothers and fathers of their loss? Who was there to pick up the pieces? Who was there to save them?_

 

_Not Arthur. Arthur who couldn't even save his own family, Arthur who's father was calling him a coward even from the grave. He could have done something, anything. Arthur who watched his comrades fall like dominoes in a blood red field. Arthur who has to watch people he cares about die every single god damn day. Arthur who's scared that one day they wont wake up._

 

_Before he knows it he's slipping, clutching his head as if afraid it might burst. The distant voice getting louder and louder. Banging, unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was almost as if someone was trying to break down a door, hammering on it with fists of steel and eyes of red. Doesn't matter. Nothing does._

 

_It gets louder still, pumping, pulsating in Arthur’s ear and he just cant take it any more. Suddenly he's yelling and he cant remember why, broken sentences and out of place words that he just cant make sense of._

 

_He thinks his eyes might be closed but he just cant remember, cant bring himself to even attempt to open them. He cant run, bounded by the blood that is still falling from a crashing skyline. The voice, muffled but loud. A crash, a bang, silence._

 

_The voice again, this time clearer, as if the wall sepereating the two had been broken down. His name, he thinks it's his name. Being called over and over again, sounding desperate, pleading almost. He fights for control, battling to reach the voice that seems to promise safety. It sounds familiar. It sounds..._

 

_It sounds like Eames._

 

Arthur’s eyes flew open, blinking madly in the bright lights and it takes him a moment to figure out that somethings changed. The showers still running but he's not in it, the bathroom door is hanging off its hinges and a pair of steady arms are wrapped around his chest, soothing his beating chest.

 

Eames.

 

-/-

 

They sit silently opposite each other, untouched mugs of coffee festering on the table. The forgers eyes seeming unblinking in their relentless stare. Arthur refuses to meet his gaze, looking instead out of the window and at the world passing by. Cars like hungry ants speeding down roads of grey. Dots of people walking hurriedly, barely noticing those around them. Birds taken to the skies, soaring high and gliding far.

 

A pang of jealousy sparks in Arthur’s chest. What he wouldn't give to be like them. Birds don’t lie awake at night because their too afraid to sleep. Birds don’t carry a plague of the mind with them wherever they go. Wherever they hide. They can fly, forever moving forwards to new skies and new lands. They know where they're going, know how they're getting there. Sometimes they'll have nowhere to go. So they'll rest. Soaring over luscious county and lulling seas. Free.

 

Free from the cages of the mind. Free from the contradictions. Free from the paradoxes within paradoxes tied up with a blood red bow. Arthur’s not. He's not free. Never was. There's nothing to be missed from something he's never had. It's life. It's regime. Something that Arthur knows, that he understands. He's not free. There's no prison keeping him behind bars. No guard pushing him back. Just the voice in his head that’s telling him that he cant. That its over. That its his fault. Its all his fault.

 

There's blood and there’s pain. That's it. That's all there is...

 

..Well. There's Eames

 

Eames who didn’t break Arthur’s wall. He smashed through it kamikaze style in a dramatic shattering of bricks. Eames didn’t give up. Didn’t back down. He pushed and he pushed Arthur until the cracks showed and he forced his way through. A hell of a feat. Not exactly the worlds easiest thing to do.

 

Arthur knows Eames. Knows he has his own demons, his own worries. He knows how Eames is his opposite. How Eames surrounds himself with people that can help him. And people who will. Somedays he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the Forger. Somedays he thinks he knows nothing at all.

 

Yet here he is. Sitting across from Arthur with a desperate look in his eyes. Old eyes sunken in a young face. Eyes that have seen too much darkness in the world. Betraying a mind that thinks constantly. Always a reason to be alert. Arthur knows the war affected Eames too. It's not a physical change. Not a collection of scars. It runs deeper than that. It changes you. It takes who you are and alters every detail until you can no longer stand the face looking back at you in the mirror. It gives you a sense of pride that will forever burn in your chest, and a sense of guilt. Arthur entered the war a boy. And came out the shadow of a man.

 

Eames cares. He cares too much. If you're important to him and you're hurting he'll take on the problem, carry the word on his shoulders and never surrender until you're not hurting any more. It had always been his greatest strength. And his greatest weakness. Arthur knows the story, he's seen it first hand. The idea that starts with a twinkle in the Brits eye. The twinkle that lights the spark in his chest. The spark that ignites the flames. The flames that never subside until the battle is won. He can see it now, the twinkle in the relentless stare.

 

Eames remained silent. His gaze calculating as he waited for Arthur to say something.

 

A few more minutes passed before Arthur could take it no more. Tearing his gaze away from the window and being silently thankful for Eames's acknowledgement of his personal space. He eyed Eames with some uncertainty before letting out a sigh.

 

“How long” Eames asked and Arthur knew what he meant. How long. How long had he been a shell of his former, proud self. A shell filled with nightmares and horror.

“Two years” He said, salvaging the urge to keep his voice steady.

 

Silence. Arthur could practically hear the cogs whirring within Eames's mind. Two years of suppressed fear. Two years of uncontrollable pain. Two years stuck in repeat. Ground hog day.

 

“Why?” Eames asked. Why keep it inside. Why not get help. Why lock it all away within yourself.

Arthur looked at Eames with such guilt it caused the forger to shuffle back in his seat.

 

 

“Because...” Arthur began, searching for the words to say “I thought I could handle it”

 


End file.
